


George

by GotTea



Series: Family Series [4]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-10-04 19:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17310743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: There's a level of suspicion in Iris's tone that Grace knows won't be shaken off easily. Hastily, she asks, "Is something wrong?" It works, because there's a momentary pause, then an acknowledgement of sorts. "Well, I do seem to have found myself in a bit of a pickle, yes."Fourth story in the Family Series. Don't like, don't read. Happy Christmas 2018.





	George

**George**

* * *

Still slightly disgruntled, and feeling a little guilty about it, Grace sinks further into the not-quite-comfortable-enough backseat of Boyd’s Audi and gives up on listening to and participating in the stilted, irritating conversation that is taking place in the front of the car’s cabin, choosing instead to close her eyes and try to relax. It’s not that she doesn’t like Boyd’s elderly but still surprisingly active father George, because she does, but sometimes he can be just a little bit… annoying.

Like today, when he insisted that they drop everything and take him Christmas shopping. It’s not that she begrudges spending the time with him, but the day was already mapped out when he rang last night and guilt-tripped his son into helping him out. She can’t fault Boyd for yielding either, because the last couple of weeks seem to have melted away, and what with a couple of extra family commitments on her side, the end of year rush to tie things up, get shopping done and attend various work events and parties, they seem to have lost the time they usually have for routine family visits. It’s the same old story, really; Christmas is approaching, and with it all the requisite and unavoidable chaos.  

In front of her George coughs, not through illness but in that infuriating way of his that tells her he was asking her something but she didn’t hear and he’s now not-so-subtly letting her know about it. Rebelliously, Grace keeps her eyes closed, her breathing even. Doesn’t move.

She’s feeling weary, and slim on patience. And absolutely not in the mood to deal with grumpy, belligerent old men who seem to have a chip on their shoulder and some sort of unspoken issue with her and her presence in Boyd’s life.

Her latest batch of routine test results were late, only being returned yesterday and the uncomfortable prickle of tension in the house that lasted all week bled through into their working environment, causing a series of stupid, petty squabbles that resulted in them spending two nights apart. It was all resolved yesterday, and they more than made up for their arguments last night, but Grace is still feeling a little raw from the edge of fear that crept in all too easily, and from just how easily that wedge appeared between the two of them.

Then there’s the rapidly approaching holiday and the on-going struggle regarding where to spend it. The decision was made weeks ago to spend it with her family, but George, and Juliet, Boyd’s opinionated, strong-willed younger sister, have been very vocal about that choice. In a manner that’s beginning to verge on unpleasant and wearing.

And finally there’s the secret she’s keeping from everyone. The knowledge she accidentally gleaned from her mother and brother Jack a couple of weeks ago, and hasn’t even spoken to Boyd about. There’s been no news from the court, not a hint of a murmur as to whether the rumour she overheard is true. And she’s too afraid to try and find out herself. _Far_ too afraid.

Grace despises herself for it, but the fear is so visceral, so strong that three times in the last fortnight she’s had completely disabling panic attacks. Which she hasn’t told anyone about, either. Worse still, Boyd found her in the middle of the last, and she was so shamed and afraid that afterwards when he questioned her about it she lied and told him it was because of the delayed test results. That she was scared the cancer had come back. He believed her, too, and he took her in his arms and held her until she relaxed and fell asleep against his chest, and for that she feels inordinately guilty as well.

That irritating cough sounds again, but stubbornly she refuses to open her eyes. She needs peace. Quiet. Some time to herself.

To somehow reconcile all the things churning away inside her, eating her up.

Without having to open her eyes, she knows that Boyd is looking at her in the rear view mirror. “Leave her alone,” he murmurs. “She’s had a rough couple of weeks, she’s exhausted.”

“Hmm. If you two didn’t live such chaotic lives…”

She doesn’t need to see him to know there is a scowl on Boyd’s face as he responds, tone rather waspish. “We work hard, we make a difference. You ought to be proud of that.”

Now George will be scowling, his face identical to his son’s but for the age-difference between them. Yet nothing more is said and for that Grace is grateful. An argument between the two men can last for days, and reach an ear-splitting decibel level.

She tunes them out, sinking into her thoughts and then into a slight doze as the warmth of the car wraps around her, comforting her.

A while later, she’s not sure how long, but it’s probably at least half an hour because the sun has begun to sink low on the horizon, she’s woken by a familiar beeping tune rising from within the depths of her handbag. Startled, and a little groggy, she fumbles for small device making the racket that’s causing George to tut to himself in the front seat. Her seat.

The beeping stops before she finds the phone, just long enough for a mutter from their elderly passenger to reach her ears before it starts again.

“Honestly, you young people are always on your phones. Can’t even have a nice day out without being interrupted by them.”

“Give it a rest, dad,” growls Boyd as Grace finally locates her mobile and presses the relevant button before lifting it to her ear. Her eyes meet her lover’s in the mirror and they share a small, knowing smile.

“Hello?” Even to her own ears, Grace sounds dazed.

“Grace? Are you all right, darling?” Gentle, loving concern. Sometimes, but not always, her mother’s way.

Blinking, Grace fumbles for the bottle of water on the seat beside her. Grips it between her knees as she twists of the cap with one hand, and then takes a long swallow. Cool but not cold, the water clears not just her throat, but her head as well.

“Fine,” she says, blinking. “Sorry, I’d nodded off.”

“Where are you?” It’s a rapid response, one that changes the direction of the conversation abruptly, though the older woman doesn’t slip into even a hint of the shortness that George seems to be managing with each and every word today.

Looking around, Grace finds she isn’t sure. “In the car,” is the best response she can give.

“And you fell asleep? This early in the day? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Hmm…”

There’s a level of suspicion in Iris’s tone that Grace knows won’t be shaken off easily. Hastily, she asks, “Is something wrong?”

It works, because there’s a momentary pause, then an acknowledgement of sorts. “Well, I do seem to have found myself in a bit of a pickle, yes.”

Grace knows that tone. Knows it very well. “What have you done?”

“Well, I’m in the dark…”

The levity in her mother’s tone makes Grace want to roll her eyes. It’s so typical of her. “And I’m not capable of solving riddles just at the moment,” she returns, taking another sip of water and supressing a yawn. Accidental afternoon naps always leave her feeling hung-over and sluggish.

A muttered, “Are you ever?” from the front seat makes her look up just in time to see Boyd casting an aggravated glance at his father. Where did that come from? George may be annoying sometimes, but he’s never not been polite to her.

“No, I am. Quite literally. The lights have gone out, darling.”

She smiles. “Ah, I see. How many car mechanics does it takes to change a lightbulb?”

Iris snorts. “Well, I’d ask Thomas but my guess is I wouldn’t find out straight away because he’d have to wait for the necessary parts to arrive.”

They cackle together, though it is not aimed at Grace’s middle brother, owner of a highly successful car garage, just their shared sense of humour. 

“Anyway,” Iris continues as the amusement dies down, “I can’t reach the sodding fuse box. So unless you want me climbing up on a chair…”

“Don’t you dare,” threatens Grace, visions of calamity and serious injury rushing through her mind as she thinks of how unsteady her mother has been since spraining her ankle three weeks ago. “And that’s a fine for the swear box.”

The level of indignant outrage in Iris’s reply is highly amusing. “It is not!”

“When I was nine and Simon came home from school in a rage about his history homework, you fined him for using that very word.”

There’s silence for a moment, then, “Child, your memory never ceases to amaze me. If ever there’s something I’d really rather not remember, I can be sure you’ll remind me of it. At the most inopportune moment, of course.”

Straight-faced, Grace replies, “Well, that’s my job as your daughter, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, maybe.” Her mother doesn’t sound convinced. “Put the charming-but-shouty Superintendent on the phone please,” Iris requests, her tone imperious.

“No,” retorts Grace, flatly. “He’s driving. And it’s _Detective_ Superintendent – he’s particular about people getting his rank correct.”

“Of course he is,” laughs Iris. “Well tell him to point that oversized, overly expensive hulk of a machine of his in the direction of my house. I need help.”

Looking up, Grace calls out, “Peter, my mother needs rescuing.”

“I do NOT need rescuing,” is the immediately frosty response that lands in her ear. “I just need… a bit of assistance.”

Snickering with the sole intent of winding the other woman up, Grace shrugs to herself and replies with a slow, sly, “Well, that sounds very much like the same thing to me.”

“ _Elizabeth Grace_ …”

“Oooh, my full name,” she taunts, thoroughly enjoying herself now as Boyd indicates and then takes a right-hand turn and heads in the more-or-less opposite direction.

“Where are you going?” demands George, clearly ruffled. “You’re supposed to be taking me home.”

“And I will,” replies Boyd, evenly, “after we’ve rescued Iris.”

“Iris?”

“Iris Foley. Grace’s delightful mother,” he confirms, and if Grace isn’t mistaken, there’s a hint of glee in his tone. He really does like her mum, it seems.  

“I see. So you drop everything the moment _she_ calls…” The implication sets Grace’s teeth on edge. What _is_ it with the old man today? Is she really so tired that her normal tolerance has plummeted, or is he being more grumpy and irritating than normal?

Boyd’s answer is simple, and firm. Ends the debate. “Yes.” Once more he looks in the mirror and smiles, and Grace feels her heart warm just a little. In response she blows him a kiss.

Her mother is saying something, but listening to the two men Grace misses it. “Sorry mum, what was that?” she asks when silence takes hold.

“Charming,” sniffs the older woman. “Anyone would think I don’t matter to you.”

“That’s right,” Grace agrees cheerfully. “You matter not a jot.”

Iris cackles again, in the heart-warming way only she can do. Then, “I love you darling. I did try your brothers first, but they’re all out, it seems.”

Grace smiles. “Not to worry, we’re on our way,” she assures the voice at the end of the phone. “Light a candle or something, and DO NOT try any heroics.”

The sarcasm that comes her way is oh so apparent. “Yes, daughter dear. You’d never think I’d made it to my age without you to look after me…”

“Astonishing, isn’t it?” teases Grace.

“Quite. You’re in luck, actually. I just finished making a tin full of gingerbread men for the children. You can have some while they’re still fresh.”

“Mmm,” sighs Grace, her taste buds perking up at the thought. A childhood favourite that morphed into an adult guilty pleasure, her mother’s gingerbread is her absolute favourite Christmas treat. “Did you decorate them?”

“I did.”

“Are they all men?”

A familiar, knowing laugh flows down the phone. “I may have made you a few trees…”

It’s a silly thing, but when she was a small child, for some reason no one in the family can clearly remember, Grace became upset that the gingerbread creations were all men, just like her brothers. And so, to soothe her only girl child, Iris made a batch of gingerbread Christmas trees, which the two of them then decorated together. And after that it became an annual tradition, one that never seemed to stop, even as Grace grew up and left home.

There are just some things you never grow out of, Grace muses to herself as the phone call ends, letting her mind wander back over years of playing with different coloured icing and mountains of sprinkles. It helps distract her from the incessant grumbling, muttering diatribe issuing from _her_ seat, and from the increasingly edgy way Boyd is starting to fidget.

But the explosion is inevitable, and they’re less than five minutes away from their destination when it all comes to a head.

“I’ll be staying in the car while you go and do whatever you have to do,” announces George, sulkily.

Grace holds back a sigh, knowing this is it.

“You will not,” snaps Boyd, his patience fraying audibly. “You’re coming inside and you’ll act with a little civility. Honestly, dad, I don’t know what’s the matter with you today.”

There’s a growl of anger from the older man. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t just take me home first. We were twenty minutes from my house at most.”

“And another twenty-five from Iris on top of that,” Boyd grinds out. “I’m not leaving her for that long when she needs help. What sort of man do you take me for?”

“She didn’t sound as though she was that desperate,” George sneers.

It’s fortunate there’s not much traffic on the road, thinks Grace, as Boyd suddenly veers towards the kerb and brings the car to a complete stop. Nevertheless, there’s still at least one angry horn that suddenly sounds outside the comfort of the leather interior. The noise is quickly drowned out by the sudden shouting match that erupts between the two angry men in front of her.

“Why are you acting like this?” challenges Boyd, “You’ve been as miserable as sin all day.”

“No I haven’t, you’ve just taken it into your head to pick on me,” accuses George.

“To pick on you?” The sheer level of incredulity in Boyd’s voice is only matched by how stunned he sounds. Grace can’t blame him.

“Yes! You and _her_ , you’ve been nothing but… but _aggravating_ … all day. Winding me up. You go on at me and pester me, wanting to know why I’m not happy, or why I’m so surly.”

“Winding you up..?” Boyd seems lost for words, almost unable to compute what’s being said to him.

“Yes! I’ve had to nag you and nag you to spend the day with me, and then we couldn’t even have lunch without the two of you holding hands under the table and smiling at each other constantly.”

There’s flint in her lover’s hazel eyes now, and they seem to darken even as he speaks. “We already had our day planned out when you called last night and demanded that I drop everything and take you out.”

“I didn’t _demand_ ,” sneers George, haughtily. “I just suggested it might be nice for you and me to spend a bit of time together.”

Sliding down into the depths of her seat, Grace closes her eyes again and tries to pretend she’s anywhere but where she actually is. It should be fairly easy, given that the two enraged men seem to have forgotten she’s there, but then, the volume is so loud that her ears are starting to ache. She can see where this is going, and she doesn’t like it one bit. The row continues, the volume increasing and the level of accusations becoming increasingly vicious from George as his perplexed son becomes infinitely more frustrated. 

“You’re jealous,” Boyd finally bellows.

“What?” blusters George, “Why would you say that? Of course I’m not!”

“Yes you are,” accuses Boyd, his tone finally dropping somewhat. “Oh, for God’s sake, dad. You’ve been nagging at me for years to find someone real to share my life with, and then when I do… well. That’s what all this has been about today, hasn’t it? You’re jealous of Grace.”

The response is immediate and defensive. “Of course I’m not.”

Cutting straight to the point, Boyd glowers and challenges his father with, “Don’t give me that crap, admit it. You’re envious, and angry that I have someone else in my life.”

There’s a long pause. Then, “I…”

Narrow-eyed and steely, Boyd isn’t backing down. “Go on.”

George seems to crumble, though not without a lot of fidgeting and muttering under his breath. “Okay, fine, but when was the last time we spent any time together, son?”

Arms crossed, Boyd nods in acceptance. “It was a while ago, I’ll grant you, but before you get on your high horse again, I’ll remind you that the last twice we’ve had weekend plans you’ve cancelled them at the last minute to take Doris out.”

“Yeah, well… _Doris_ has gone off with Alan who runs the town hall. He’s ‘more to her taste’, apparently.” 

“I see.”

Pursing her lips, Grace suddenly finds it’s an effort not to laugh. Not at George’s… situation… but at his classic reaction to it. Despite her annoyance with him and his surliness today, it’s a sad thing to be thrown over for someone else, as she knows from bitter experience. Even so though, he’s been entirely rude to her today, and now that she knows why, she can’t help but find the whole thing rather amusing. If this is what she has to look forward to as Boyd ages, she’s not sure whether it’s a good thing or not. Though to be fair to him, though he looks just like his father he’s not nearly as grumpy, and even when he is he’s generally easy enough to cheer up, _if_ she knows what’s bothering him.

There’s some sort of manly, mini heart-to-heart going on now, and Grace doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t want to give either of them a chance to remember that she’s there and suddenly suffer from a complete attack of self-consciousness and the ensuing silence that would bring on. No, far better that they get it off their chests so they can all move on.

She just hopes her mother hasn’t tried anything stupid in the meantime. 

But then, unexpectedly, and seemingly out of nowhere, one of them says something and the other roars back, the argument reigniting in full. Ears ringing with the force of the bellowing in such small confines, Grace sighs and reaches for her bag strap, tugging it across the seat towards her. Quietly and unobtrusively she slips out of the car and begins to walk the final few streets towards her childhood home.

The front door looks the same as it always has, but for the festive wreath and the cheery snowman decorations hanging from the wall-mounted lamp. Someone, she suspects one of her nephews, has wrapped twinkly lights around the porch supports, giving the place an even more inviting feel than is normal. Funny that the outside lights are working, but not the inside, she muses, as she knocks on the door and then tries the handle.

It’s blessedly warm inside, and as she shuts the door behind her, Grace calls out into the darkness. “Mum?”

Lighting the way by candle, Iris appears from the kitchen. “Hello, darling, thanks for coming.”

“Not a problem.” Grace abandons her bag on the stairs and follows her mother back to the kitchen.

“The number of times I’ve asked your brothers if they can move the damn thing,” grumbles Iris, glaring up at the fuse box, which is mounted high on the wall near the backdoor. 

“Don’t worry about it,” shrugs Grace, grabbing a chair and climbing up.

“Do be careful, won’t you?” There’s an uncharacteristic not of worry in Iris’s tone, and it makes Grace glance down with concern.

“What’s wrong?”

Iris shakes her head, but doesn’t manage to hide a shiver. “Nothing.”

“Mum…”

“Oh, all right, I had a nightmare last night. I can’t remember most of it, but you were in danger. I was worried.”

John, thinks Grace, her chest tightening and her heart aching sharply. That’s what’s on her mother’s mind. The same thing that’s bothering her, but that neither of them can bring themselves to talk to the other about. Darkness that has nothing to do with the room’s lack of light flickers at the edge of her vision, but she grits her teeth and forces it back, determined.

“Well,” she says, injecting cheer into her voice as she lifts the cover and flicks the offending switch back the right way, “I’m fine, and so…” she pauses as light fills the room, “are your lights.” Getting back down with care, she turns and smiles. “There we go, all done.”

“Indeed,” agrees the older woman, glaring down at the walking stick she is leaning heavily on. “Bloody wretched thing. I’ll be glad when I can be shot of it.”

Hiding a grin, Grace nods. “I bet you will. Now, shall I put the kettle on?”

A heavy sigh precedes, “All right then. Where’s your handsome shouty policeman?”

Looking up from the kettle and tap, Grace tries very hard not to smirk. “Around the corner having a shouting match with his father.”

Startled, Iris looks very much like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or not. “Because..?”

Settling the kettle back on its base, Grace shrugs. “Because the two of them appear to be very alike? Because George is a grumpy old bugger? Because they can? Who knows.”

“I see.” Iris is nothing if not shrewd. “Been a long day, has it, baby girl?”

Trying for some patience she doesn’t really feel, Grace opts for the diplomatic answer. “Something like that.”

Lifting the lid off a tin beside her on the table, Iris offers Grace a tempting view of the promised gingerbread. “Come and sit down and tell me all about it.”

It’s too easy. It always has been. And as they sit and talk about what has transpired over the course of the day, one woman rolls her eyes a lot and the other begins to relax.

“Men,” scoffs Iris, as Grace reaches the end of her tale. “Bloody idiots, the lot of them.”

Trying not to choke on a mouthful, Grace giggles, sinking into a host of memories from the evening before. “Well, some of them are all right…”

One eyebrow rises, and a very knowing look comes her way. “Your mind is in the gutter,” is the amused accusation that drifts towards her.

“No, no,” she disagrees. “It was actually in the bath.”

“The bath?” Her mother sounds sceptical.

“Oh yes,” grins Grace. “Peter has a lovely big corner bath in his en-suite. It’s… quite something.”

“I see.”

“So, in actual fact, my mind is quite… clean…”

The laughter that erupts between them is hearty and prolonged, and when it finally begins to dwindle Grace leans forward on impulse and wraps her arms around her mother, savouring the moment as the hug becomes strong and mutual.

The shadows that have been stalking her flicker across her heart for a moment, run through her mind, but she stubbornly fights them off. Iris must know something isn’t right though, because she asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” fibs Grace, shame burning through her, though she does her best to banish that too. “I just love you and I don’t see enough of you.”

“Hmm, okay.”

“That’s not the answer you’re supposed to give, mother,” teases Grace, as they straighten.

“Oh, and what’s that then?”

“How about something along the lines of, I love you too, daughter dearest?”

“If I was predictable, you’d think I was ill,” needles Iris.

“I would as well,” sighs Grace.

The older woman’s eyes drift to the clock. “How long do you reckon those men can argue for?”

It’s an interesting question. “No idea. You know what Peter’s like, and George seems to be an older, grouchier, more argumentative version of him.”

The response is succinct. “Idiots.”

“Indeed,” is all Grace can offer. All may not be lost though, it seems, because inside her bag her phone beeps loudly. Fetching it, she studies the tiny screen and smiles. “They’re on their way. A truce has been declared.”

“Huh, I’ll believe that when I see it, given the story you’ve just told me.”

Getting up, Grace walks to the door and looks at the comfortingly familiar tinsel wrapped up the stair bannister, and the cards hanging on string along the walls.

“Have you got the tree up?” she calls over her shoulder, inspecting a very glittery handmade masterpiece that has surely come from one of her great-nieces.

“What do you think?” is the short reply she receives.

Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes. “I think,” she intones, “That you wouldn’t dare not. Not after the commotion Edward kicked up that year you decided not to bother.”

“I think you’re probably right,” agrees Iris, gently elbowing her daughter out of the way as she goes into the living room. Moments later the tree her youngest grandson was so upset about not seeing is lit up in all its festive annual glory.

“Very pretty.”

“It is,” is the grudging acknowledgement. “Even if it is a bugger to put together.”

“You could’ve asked me to come and help,” Grace points out, wincing at the thought of her mother struggling with it all on her own.

Free hand on her hip, stick planted firmly on the floor, Iris sends her an imperious sort of look. “Don’t be silly, that’s what I have grandchildren for. What use are all those strong young men if I can’t summon them round here for something so simple as putting up a Christmas tree?”

“Oh, well, silly me indeed. Such a struggle you had, I’m sure.”

Beady eyes survey her, heavy mirth only just contained behind them. “It moults. Much hoovering was required afterwards.”

“No doubt by one of your strong young grandsons, I assume…”

Perhaps fortunately, the doorbell chooses that moment to interrupt them, and the two women grin at each other as Grace turns to go and let the hopefully rather less fractious men in. Iris follows.

“I can operate the door myself, you know,” comments Grace, not quite ready to give up needling.  

“Do you know,” declares Iris, and the sheer amount of sarcasm she manages to inject into the words would awe Grace if she hadn’t had a lifetime of it already, “I would never have guessed. As it happens, I want a look at this cantankerous old codger before I decide whether to admit him into the sanctity of my abode or not. He might be the handsome one’s father, but if I don’t like the look of him he can stay outside in the cold.”

“He’s not a dog,” murmurs Grace, though privately she finds she might be slightly attracted to the idea after an entire day of snide abuse. “And his name is George.”

“Mm. We’ll see.”

“Hello,” grins Boyd, his smile absolutely angelic as the door swings open and he swoops in to hug the elderly lady he has very quickly become so fond of.

“Good afternoon, Handsome One,” smirks Iris, clearly delighted.

“We’ve come to rescue you, but I can see Grace has already done that.” He steps back, gestures to the man now beside him. “Iris, this is my father, George Boyd. Dad, this is Grace’s mother, Iris Foley.”

Hands are shaken, wary greetings exchanged. It lasts only seconds though, before a moment is seized upon.

“Excuse me,” interjects Boyd, reaching across the porch and grasping hold of Grace, tugging her into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she asks, puzzled and half-heartedly trying to fend him off.

“Making the most of a golden opportunity,” he grins, jerking his head upwards. Grace looks up, and laughs. Mistletoe, right above their heads.

“I see,” she murmurs, well aware her tone has dropped and her focus has narrowed only to the man in her life. The man who has a firm but tender grasp of her, and whose lips are reaching down to brush softly against her own. Softly, and very, very slowly.

It’s exquisite, and by God, if they were anywhere else but here…

“Ahem.” There’s no mistaking that authoritative demand for their attention and, guiltily, Grace pulls back, letting the heady moment dissolve away as she twists her head to look at her mother. “Decorum, at all?” admonishes Iris. 

“As I recall,” begins Boyd, and Grace just knows he’s going to come out with something utterly outrageous. He doesn’t disappoint her. “You were the one that told us to make use of the porch, which I would hasten to add, is where you’ve placed your very fetching sprig of mistletoe, presumably for such use…”

For a moment, Iris is silent. Then she nods. “You’re right, young man, I did indeed. Crack on then, kiss her properly. God knows, she needs it.”

Grace’s protest of “Mother!” is cut short as those wonderfully soft lips meet hers again, and for a few blissful seconds the only thing in her universe is the solid heat of his body pressed against hers, the reassuring grip of his arms as he holds her to him, and the spicy warmth of his aftershave taunting her nostrils. She loves him, she really, really does.

For those few precious seconds the entire day in all its stressful, irritating nature falls away and she’s simply happy and safe in the arms of the man she adores, the man she knows would never do anything other than his absolute best to keep her safe. The man who has promised her that he loves her, who would never, ever hurt her.

It’s over all too soon, of course, and then there’s the awkward silence on the porch as the two parents look on. But then George gives her mother what Grace can only think of as a hopeful look. “What, no kiss for me?” he asks, seemingly seriously.

What on earth…

The hairs prickling along the back of her neck, Grace looks up at Boyd, alarmed. He stares back down at her, eyes widening, his grip on her waist tightening slightly as the same thought clearly runs through his head too. Surely not..?

But George is indeed looking at Iris with something more than passing interest in his eyes. And he seems more than keen to get inside, if the change in his body language is anything to go by. His hope is short-lived though.

“You should think yourself so lucky,” snorts Iris, glaring at George. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve caused quite a lot of commotion today as it is. You’ll not be trying your luck with me, you cheeky sod. Now come in and have a gingerbread man.”

George laughs. “What, no mince pies?”

Judging from the withering look the old man receives, her mother is not in a mood to take prisoners. “Don’t be so normal. Or _rude_ , come to think of it. If you’re lucky – and if you _behave_ yourself – I may offer you a sherry, but that is it.”

Watching his father trail meekly into the house after Iris, who stalks off to the kitchen with an air of considerable dignity, Boyd sighs. “I love your mother. When I grow up, I want to be just like her.”

“If I was you,” suggests Grace, ignoring the cackling laughter suddenly issuing from within the house, “I’d work on growing up first. Save the rest for later, and in the meantime, now that the audience has disappeared, you could make proper use of that mistletoe up there.”

Hazel eyes gaze down at her, full of mischief. “That, my dear,” he tells her gravely, “is a brilliant idea.” 


End file.
